A Wanted Woman Part 25

Neziah De Lewis, King Killer, wished that he had never f.u.c.kin' met a G.o.dd.a.m.n Kiwi.

All the men told him that they wished that they had never been dishonored by a member of their own family. War Machine nodded at his guntas and then he left the b.l.o.o.d.y room.

He went to another part of the warehouse, to an empty office.

He cursed, screamed, kicked walls, knocked over anything in sight, made agony echo.

He had proven his loyalty to the LKs at a new level. He had killed his own blood, had killed a lieutenant and his wife to show his love for the LKs. That pain would give him energy. He would kill to avenge his bereaved family as well. His wife had demonstrated her level of commitment to the organization. She had sanctioned the death of her brother. She had kissed him, told him good-bye.

War Machine wept, pounded the cinder-block walls with his fists.

He should have been in that other room.

Not King Killer. Not his cousin. Not his brother.

But this was the way it had to be.

He stood tall, straightened his suit, washed his face.

He returned to his men. To his warriors. To his cousin.

He drew his weapon and put a bullet in King Killer's brain.

The man was already dead six times over.

He shot his cousin anyway, the gunfire the echo of his frustration.

He shot the man who had been closer than a brother.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Between three and four in the morning in Bridgetown, Bidechaina Charles, a Haitian woman, fell to her death from the roof of Carlisle House. An hour later, two teenage ruffians who had robbed three British tourists of their gold and money were shot and killed on Gitten Road. Two more boys were dead inside of the home. A fifth boy was gunned down as he fled the a.s.sa.s.sin that was on his trail. As he ran up a section of cut-rock road back toward Haggart Hall, pink mist filled the air. A sixth boy had run across Government Road and bolted across an open field that led toward the projects. When he was halfway across the field, a Bone Crusher Carbon Arrow landed in the ground right in front of him.

He changed course, ran harder. Twenty yards later, he felt the abrupt pain in his back.

He looked down and saw six inches of arrow sticking out of his chest, protruding between the white numbers 2 and 4 on his purple-and-gold L.A. Lakers jersey. He fell over, died with his eyes open.

I had nothing to do with any of that.

That was the work of Nemesis Adrasteia.

Tonight, Petrichor had become Nemesis Adrasteia.

The spirit of divine retribution. The inescapable. Tonight she gave what was due.

Old Man Reaper's Bahamian daughter was busy.

I was dealing with RCSI and their bulls.h.i.t. Again the Barbarians had tugged my chain and sent me on another a.s.signment, again at the last minute, again alone, an encore with no backup.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Upper end of Collymore Rock Road I parked in a small, twenty-s.p.a.ce car park in front of the shopworn edifice in Gertz Plaza. I waited in front of Fresh 'n Clean Laundromat. A black BMW pulled up. I knew his stats before I saw him. Six-two. Three hundred on the scale. He dragged himself out of his fancy car and headed up the concrete stairs that ran up the side of the building from down near Andy Ann's Restaurant, stairs that weren't visible from the main road. Nothing was upstairs there except for Mag's Barber and Beauty Salon and Harry's Heel Bar, both closed at this unG.o.dly hour. I had already walked the area looking for witnesses. Mane Attraction, Pearson's Pharmacy, Channel's Supermarket, KFC, Sh.e.l.l gas station, everything was dark. I took catlike steps, and followed Big Guy up the stairs. He wore an NY baseball cap, black suit coat over an orange polo, brown sandals, had rings on four fingers, plus a silver earring. He looked like a pimp who needed to work mornings at Starbucks and then be a greeter at Walmart in the afternoon to make ends meet.

He unlocked the heavy-duty iron floor-to-ceiling burglar gate that led to the offices upstairs.

I said, "Richard Barrow."

Startled, he turned and saw me. I was dressed in all black. I wasn't in the best of moods.

"Who you?"

I peeled away my fake mustache. He was surprised, shifted when he realized that I was not the wearer of t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s had been wrapped down so I looked flat-chested.

I said, "Big Guy, doesn't matter who I am."

My dusky look, Scottish accent, and rough tongue jarred him. Seeing he had a surplus of nose hair, a baby Afro growing from each nostril, that both jarred and disgusted me.

He said, "You're with them. The man behind the red doors sent you to deal with me."

"Let's take this inside, Big Guy. To your office."

We went into the hallway. I had him put the heavy padlock back on the wrought-iron gate. That gate spoke of high crimes. The Pine was right behind here with its own reputation.

I took out a sap and slugged Big Guy across the back of his neck. The pain took him down to his knees. The floor was made of hard tile, and that added more pain, made him roll over, one hand holding his head, the other grabbing at his knees. I hummed as I put on my biker gloves, straddled him. Blackened his eyes. Broke his nose. Hit him over and over. Hard blows. Pretended I was beating the f.u.c.ker from the Barbarians who always ruffled my feathers. Pretended I was beating the LKs. Was beating Parker's ex-wife. Bruised, bloodied, and humbled; when I stepped away and stood up ready to take this to the next level, he tried to get up, but collapsed back against the cinder-block wall.

He pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it against his fresh injury, absorbed blood.

I took out a phone, snapped a photo of his b.l.o.o.d.y mug, e-mailed it to my people.

He asked, "What else they tell you to do?"

"That depends on you. The money."

"I don't have it."

"Find it. It needs to be transferred within the next ten minutes."

"I don't have it."

"In that case I will need a finger."

"You have to break a finger too?"

I opened my bag and pulled out a pruning saw.

His eyes went wide. "s.h.i.te, s.h.i.te, s.h.i.te, s.h.i.te, b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.te."

I asked, "Which finger can you live without?"

"I guess . . . I guess that I could get by with one pinky. The one on the left hand."

"What's the issue with the money? Why are you delinquent?"

"I have the same problems that they have."

"What problem is that?"

"Everything is at a standstill. You don't know about the squatters?"

"Is that a singing group from the fifties?"

He struggled to get up. I reached out and helped the big man to his feet.

He said, "You hit hard. d.a.m.n, you hit like a man."

"I hit harder than most men. I pulled my punch."

"Thanks for not knocking me into the middle of next week."

"I tried to knock you back into last month, but don't mention it."

"I'm a contractor now. I'm doing some work for your people, but the thieves are raiding my construction site. I just left there. I have to stay there half the night to make sure they aren't stealing everything. I'm losing money left and right. It's the squatters. Thieves. They are breaking into my containers and stealing windows, copper, air-conditioning, and raw materials."

"Okay."

"I know that it's the same family of squatters that they are having issue with."

"I don't know anything about an issue with squatters. It's above my pay grade."

"I lost sixty thousand dollars in windows alone. Just as much in doors."

"Hire security for five Bajan bucks an hour."

"I did, but the damage has been done. I had to replace the d.a.m.n windows and doors out of pocket so I can work the project. My credit is bad and I had to pay cash, cash that I needed to pay your boys, so my money is tied up in windows and d.a.m.n doors. I'm working on mansions. Do you have any idea how much it costs to import top-shelf windows and doors?"

My cellular buzzed. Without looking at the ID, I handed the phone to Big Guy.

I said, "Answer it. It's regarding your imprest."

"My what?"

"Your loan, a.s.shole. You owe the company six figures and they are not happy."

He looked terrified, shook his head a hundred times.

I went to his new coffeemaker and made myself a cup of coffee. A Daily Nation was on the counter. I turned to a page showing a twenty-year-old pregnant Jamaican being led from the District B Court after pleading guilty to transporting seventeen packages of Mary Jane in her stomach. I looked at photos on Big Guy's walls. Vanity from floor to ceiling. He had more than a few kids. He used to be a soca singer. Won compet.i.tions. Sweet Soca Monarch. Party Monarch. Calypso Monarch. Road March Champion. He was solo and the front man in some local group twenty years ago. I guessed that once that business moved from vinyl to bootleg CDs, thievery did him in and forced him to consider other revenue streams. Other plaques on the wall said that he was also in the import business. That covered a variety of illegal activities.

He told them, "I know it's them. They steal my raw materials and are building a b.l.o.o.d.y new parish up there. Said they have a claim. By Bajan law. I don't make the law. Not yelling. Sorry. Maybe you can reason with them using money. I'm doing the best I can do. If we get this resolved, then all will fall in place. My nose. Yeah. Broken. She f.u.c.ked up my left eye, too. Yeah, she kicked my a.s.s good."

I said, "I've done better."

He paused. I sensed some change and looked at him, a poker-face stare.

He said, "This Ecky Becky Red Annie Grey Goose is Reaper's daughter?"

Jaw tight, I nodded. Despite the string of Caribbean insults, I nodded.

He told me, "I have known your dad ever since."

"Ever since when?"

He said, "When we were kids, we were both at the Tercentenary Ward down on Jemmotts Lane at the same time. Both of us were getting tonsillectomies. Back then our lights was always getting cut off and our gas bottle was always running out and we had to sleep on the floor."

"'Gas bottle'?"

"Propane gas. Everyone has to buy their own propane gas. Anyway. Plumrose hot dogs, dolphin, and fried flying fish. He only had one uniform and had to wash it every night."

"Focus on your phone call."

Tense, he went back to the call and said, "Yeah, she is evil like her old man. Ruder and more arrogant than some of the personnel at Grantley Adams. Airport. It's an airport. Okay. Back to our issue. You have to make the squatters a better offer. They said no, but everybody has a price. Money is money. They have been offered more than that. Sweeten the pot. Give the Rastas another chance."

He paused again.

He said, "Cash money. They wouldn't have a bank account. I'm not joking. Not everybody down here trusts a bank. Well, the sooner you get that resolved, the faster I can recover what was stolen from my construction site and do what I need to do to earn and pay you. My other business? Oh, that business. It went to h.e.l.l. Ganja raid on his property. But look, and I serious, I have a huge shipment of Remy hair about to come in. Weave. It's hair. Women. Well, I have a huge shipment coming in and that hair sells for over two thousand for each customer. Weave. Hair. No, it's not the same as a wig. They can glue it in and wash it and go to the beach and take a sea bath and wash it and blow-dry it and fool themselves into thinking they grew the hair themselves. Human hair. From Asia and Brazil."

I shook my head. "Jesus. Do those dumb f.u.c.ks know anything?"

He went on, "Yeah, in that case, I guess there are much bald-headed women in Asia and Brazil. Yeah, much. They robbed women in Venezuela, held them down and cut their hair off. They steal hair in Maracaibo. No, I don't understand it either. They don't do that in Barbados. Not yet, anyway."

"It's before sunrise and I've been up all night, so can you get back on point?"

He shrugged, pointed at the phone. "No, it doesn't snow down here. Yeah, we have television. Internet, too. No gra.s.s skirts. Dress the same as the people up there. English and dialect. We have schools. Made out of brick. A very cla.s.sic education, international and commonwealth sporting events."

I muttered, "f.u.c.kin' seriously? Can you kill the travelogue and wrap that s.h.i.t up?"

He took a breath, trembled, and slid the phone back to me.